


After the rain has fallen

by DazaiKnight



Category: BSD - Fandom, Bungo Stray Dogs, bungou stray dogs
Genre: Again, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Chuuya just wants his husband back, Dazai is kidnapped, Drug Use, Fyodor is his own warning, Graphic descriptions of violence, Other ADA characters briefly mentioned, Other Mafia people, So is Dazai, Soukoku, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-01-24 08:29:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21335257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DazaiKnight/pseuds/DazaiKnight
Summary: It was supposed to be a simple mission: stake out the location, then call in the Mafia. But when have things ever been simple for Dazai?Updated 25 July 2020———————Dazai is kidnapped while on a joint mission for the ADA/Port Mafia.
Relationships: Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya (Bungou Stray Dogs)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The present; Dazai’s PoV

It was dark.

That was his first thought, followed by the gradual realization that he could not move his limbs. Or, rather, that he could not feel them, nor any other part of his body. 

Oh well, he thought. It was just as well that he could no longer feel. Perhaps it would make death easier, more pleasant. Perhaps this was death, or perhaps it was what came after. But to him, it did not matter, and he released himself back into the void of darkness with the vague feeling of a weight on the end of one of his limbs. Odd, but unimportant.

—————————————————————————-

The darkness had returned. 

This was his next thought, realizing a bit more quickly that this meant he was, indeed, alive. He reached out with his mind, feeling for his body yet again. This time, he found it. It wasn’t much, not quite feeling per se. It was a bit more like registering that his body was there and that it would be nearly impossible to move it.

Why was it always so dark though? Oh, he realized belatedly, My eyes are closed. 

Concentrating, he tried to move them, to open his eyes. At first, there was nothing, then a tiny bit of movement-just a slight flutter. He was starting to regain some sense of feeling then. His eyelids felt heavy, his lashes held down by something hard. He strained, trying yet again to move them, when they suddenly broke free, his eyes flying open. He blinked slowly, realizing that his eyes had not, in fact, been glued in place but had instead been sealed shut by the crust that accumulates in one’s sleep.

How long has it been since I opened my eyes? he wondered. 

Now that his eyes were open, he began to register what was in front of them. All he saw was darkness, a blackness occurring in varying shades as light attempted to break through the material covering his eyes. Useless. He allowed his eyes to slide shut again, focusing instead on the rest of his body.

His limbs felt heavy, as did his head, and he doubted he could successfully move any of them. He could feel that there was something cool and soft over his legs, reaching just over his waist. Something heavy was resting over one of the fingers on his left hand, and something else was causing the inside of his elbow to feel stiff and slightly sore. He could also tell that the upper half of his body was elevated slightly, propped up at an angle so that it was higher than his legs. 

Finally, there was the weight on his right hand. It was different than everything else, wrapping around his palm and entwined with his fingers. Unlike the rest of his surroundings, it was warm.

Warm.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed that feeling until he felt his fingers twitch in some desperate, subconscious plea for more. He’d moved. Relief washed over him as he searched for that same feeling, that same trigger. There. Again he felt his fingers twitch, just slightly. 

He vaguely registered a sound of some sort and the weight on his hand shifted, wrapping more tightly around his fingers. He shifted his fingers one more time and felt the warmth spread across his hand, tracing the top of his knuckles.

Warm. He’d known something warm once. It seemed distant enough that he nearly mistook the memory for a dream. The memory of something warm, of color, fiery red, and of a hand holding his. Happy, he allowed himself to fall away into the memory and sleep claimed him again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The present; Chuuya’s PoV

Chuuya woke suddenly. His head was resting on the crook of his arm, hair matted to his face.

When did I fall asleep? he wondered, lifting his head to glance at the clock - the sole decoration in the otherwise dull, white hospital room. He rubbed his eyes with his free hand, stretching in his chair, which had been pulled up alongside the bed. His other hand still rested on Dazai’s, their fingers loosely entwined with each other’s. 

What had woken him? It him a moment to realize that it was that the pressure on his hand - the one holding Dazai’s - has shifted slightly. Chuuya sighed. Chuuya must have shifted his hand in his sleep, mistaking it for Dazai moving, which was something the doctors deemed impossible. 

At least for now, he reminded himself. Impossible, but only for now. Chuuya didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh or cry. It was the same thing he had been telling himself for months, ever since they’d found Dazai in his practically dead state. 

Chuuya was pulled from this thought abruptly as he felt the same sensation that had pulled him from sleep. A movement. Very slight, but there all the same. His heart began to pound in his chest as Chuuya shifted his grip on the other man’s hand, holding it, cradling it gently. There it was again. Weak, but there. 

“Dazai?” Chuuya’s voice was barely above a whisper, shaking with hope he’d begun to doubt he’d ever feel. Chuuya ran his thumb lightly across the top of his partner’s knuckles. Finally. Finally there was hope.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning; Primarily Dazai’s PoV

Dazai hummed lightly as he approached the warehouse. He had been sent to investigate the building after one of the Port Mafia’s new recruits reported seeing suspicious activity around it.

The Mafia had, of course, done it’s own research into the situation, and had sent the boy who made the initial report along with several agents trained in scouting. They all confirmed the presence of ‘suspicious’ men engaged in transporting a large number of crates. Only the boy who’d made the report claimed he’d seen the crates’ contents which, according to him, were insane amounts of various illegal substances. 

Unfortunately, the Mafia could not send in their main force without permission from a police or government affiliated group because the warehouse was located so that it did not fall within their jurisdiction, hence why they needed the ADA.

Dazai’s job was simple: enter the warehouse, confirm the illegal activity of its occupants, and call in the Mafia’s men to take care of the rest.

Dazai walked casually past the warehouse, surveying his surroundings, before quickly slipping into the shadows at the side of the building. He had traded out his usual tan coat for one of similar design, but black in color, to more effectively blend in with the shadows.

At the end of the warehouse was a door. Dazai slipped a set of picks from his pocket, opening the door in seconds. He slipped inside, pulling the door closed behind him with a quiet click. He looked around the room. So far the plans of the building - provided by the Mafia - had been accurate. He was currently standing in a small section of the warehouse, separated from the rest of the building by temporary walls and two doors - one at each end of the long room - plus the exterior door through which Dazai had entered. If the Mafia’s intel was correct, this room was being used to store merchandise that was ready to be shipped out to whoever purchased it.

Dazai approaches one of the crates, crouching behind it, and pulled a long metal crowbar from his belt before prying up the top of the crate. Dazai paused, staring down into it. It was empty. He replaced the top and tried another. Empty. 

Dazai let out a breath. Something was very, very wrong. He placed the crowbar back at his belt, slipping his right hand into his coat pocket, and wrapped his fingers around the handle of his gun. Dazai began moving between the palates of crates, knocking his hand against each as he passed. Empty, empty, empty, empty. There. One crate that did not have the same hollow sound as all the others. 

Dazai bent, crouching next to it as he felt along the edges of the crate. Pulling the top off would be impossible, due to the other boxes stacked on top of it, so he began working one of the boards off the crate’s side.

Peering into the crate, Dazai could just make out the glint of metal. Pulling out a flashlight, he shone the beam into the crate. Inside was carefully organized medical equipment. Dazai stares in shock for a moment, mentally cataloging the crate’s contents. It had all the tools that he used to carry - standard field equipment for most Mafia members - and some additional tools strongly resembling Mori’s own personal set of instruments. It was an impressive array, that was certain, but why it was there was utterly confusing.

Dazai did not have time to consider the situation further, as steps echoed around him and several men poured through the warehouse’s external door, while more entered through the far inferior door. Dazai remained crouching for a moment, assessing the situation, until he saw an opening. The men had all turned their attention to the crate he’d previously opened, prodding at its lid and exclaiming that they’d been discovered. In the moment of brief chaos, he bolted, running to the one door through which men had not come. To his surprise, it was unlocked.

Dazai pulled the door open, slipping around its edge, and closed it again with a click. He looked around the new room. It was large, with pallets of crates stacked in a maze of rows all around him. Ah, he thought, this must be the main room. Dazai turned back to the for a moment, locking it.

The rush of air was his only warning before pain split through his side, causing him to fall against the door before sliding down to his knees. Dazai grimaced, pressing a hand to his side as red blood began to spill from it, staining his clothes. Dark spots began to form in front of Dazai’s eyes, his head spinning as he tried to control his breathing. Shit. This was bad. He glanced up to where the bullet had come from, but his view was blocked by the pallets surrounding him. 

Dazai pushed himself up, leaning heavily on the door post as he tried to stand. Sharp pain tore through him again, causing his eyes to water, knees nearly buckling for a second time. Dazai looked up again. There was a loft circling the edges of the warehouse where the sniper was likely positioned.

Dazai lurched forward, pushing himself off the doorframe and onto the nearest stack of crates. He hit them hard, groaning as the air was knocked from his lungs, causing blood to spurt from the wound on his side. Leaning against the crates, he began making his way through the maze of crates, hoping they’d be enough cover to prevent the sniper from hitting him again. It was barely minutes before his knees gave out again, and Dazai collapsed against the lowest crate, gasping slightly at the impact. The crate he landed against made a dull thump sound, and Dazai turned his head towards it. Slowly, he eased himself into a sitting position and began to pry away the siding of the crate. Inside was more medical supplies. Dazai breathed a sigh of relief, searching through the crate until he found what he was looking for: a set of medical scissors, a needle, thread, and a shot with local anesthetic. Cutting through the layers of cloth around his wound, he slowly pulled the fabric back, exposing raw, bloody skin and the gaping hole in his side. Dazai lifted the syringe, slowly inserting its thin needle into the skin around his wound. It burned, amplifying the pain for a brief moment as Dazai bit down on his lip, drawing fresh blood. Then, in an instant, it was over and the pain receded, leaving Dazai panting for breath, his face covered in sweat and tears.

Next, he reached for the suture needle, threading it with shaking hands, before beginning to stitch the wound closed. He was lucky that the bullet had entered from behind, since the entrance hole left by a bullet was always far smaller than the exiting wound. Hopefully stitching the front of the wound closed would be enough to prevent him from passing out from blood loss. When he’d finished, Dazai lay the instruments next to him and began to wrestle himself out of his coat. This achieved, he used the fabric to wipe as much blood from his hands as possible, then reached for his phone, dialing Chuuya’s number.

“Hey, shitty Dazai, why is it taking so long to give the damn order and send in Hirotsu’s men?” Chuuya’s angry voice echoed from the speaker. In any other situation Dazai would’ve laughed, teasing his old partner, but not now.

“Chuuya,” Dazai started, his voice strained, “the warehouse...most of the crates were empty. The rest...it was all...just medical supplies...” Dazai held the phone away from himself as he turned to the side and wretched, spitting bile as the pain from earlier finally caught up to him.

“Dazai? Oi, Dazai!” Chuuya’s voice was edged with panic as it sounded through the phone, his mind racing. He’d seen Dazai injured enough times to know the sound of pain and exhaustion in his voice. Something had clearly gone wrong. Dammit, Chuuya was cursing quietly when he heard the distant sound coughing, followed by wheezing, pained breaths. Shit, he was really hurt. “Dazai?” he tried again, this time receiving a response.

“Chuuya, you have to listen...I don’t know how...long...I have,” Dazai paused, his head spinning. There must have been some additional drug in the anesthetic he thought belatedly as his head began to feel light, almost floating, his vision blurring. “Wait...,” he thought, “no, I can’t pass out...not yet...have...to tell...Chuuya...” Dazais eyes slid closed, head dropping.

“Dazai!” Chuuya was fully panicking now, his voice almost a shout, stomach turning as he raced out of the Mafia’s main building to his motorcycle. 

Dazai jumped awake at Chuuya’s shout. “Chuuya...” he managed, voice fading, “you have...have to find...traitor.” With that, Dazai fell silent, eyes closing, the hand holding his phone dropping to his side and right hand still clenched around his wound as his consciousness faded in and out.

“Dazai? Dazai? Hey, answer me you moron! Dazai!” This time there was no answer and Chuuya ended the call, stuffing the phone in his jacket as he raced down the highway toward the port.

At the warehouse, Dazai stirred slightly, barely registering the sound of approaching steps. A single man looked down at Dazai’s collapsed form, smiling as he crouched next to the tall man. He laughed, a low, deep sound.

“It seems a fly has been caught in my web. I do hope we’ll be able to have some fun. Hmm, Dazai-kun?” With that, the man reached out a gloved hand, lightly resting his finger beneath Dazai’s chin, turning his head to the side as the man shifted his hand to cup Dazai’s face, exposing the taller man’s neck. The man then drew his opposite hand from his pocket, producing a long, thin needle.

At the man’s touch, Dazai lifted the lids off his eyes just enough to barely see. “Who was this man, and what does he want?” Dazai thought, mind slow and foggy from the anesthetic. Then he saw the needle approaching, and his eyes flew open, a surge of adrenaline flooding his veins. Dazai pushes himself back against the crate behind him, gaining enough leverage to push himself into a standing position. The other man followed his movement easily, shoving Dazai back against the crate and earning a cry of pain from the injured man. 

At the same moment, they heard the loud sound of a motorcycle screeching to a halt outside the warehouse, followed by a loud crash.

“Tch, you never make things easy for me do you?” The man shifted in one fluid motion, placing his knee beneath the wound on Dazai’s side, covering his mouth with his left hand, and applying pressure to Dazai’s windpipe with his right forearm.

Muffled sounds escaped from the man’s fingers as Dazai continued to try to fight him. The man leaned in closer, digging his knee deeper into Dazai’s wound, his lips hovering close to the taller man’s ear. “Shhh....”

Dazai continued to struggle, even as dull pain spread throughout his body, eyes watering, the strangled cries still slipping through his lips growing weaker as the need for oxygen took over. Hanging on the edge of consciousness, he felt the arm on his neck ease away, then a sharp prick in the side of his neck before he was dropped entirely, falling limply to the ground.

The man bent down until he was eye to eye with the fallen man, purple eyes gleaming in the dark.

“Sweet dreams, Dazai-kun”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chuuya’s PoV

He was too late. Chuuya stood just inside one of the warehouse’s main doors, staring at the scene around him. There was blood everywhere. Based on the general patterns he had been able to piece together some of what had happened.

From the phone call, and the blood splatter across the door, it was clear that Dazai had been shot shortly after entering the room. From there it wasn’t hard to trace his movements to a crate that had had its side pried off, its contents practically spilling out. Across from it was enough blood to make even Chuuya queasy. The redhead knelt next to it, dipping his finger into the shallow puddle. It was still warm.

Chuuya cursed, resisting the urge to destroy the entire warehouse right then and there. He’d been so close. But still too late. 

Footsteps sounded behind him, and Chuuya turned, scowling. Hirotsu looked at him briefly, glancing at the blood-soaked scene before stepping forward and placing a hand on the smaller man’s shoulder.

“We’ll find him, Chuuya.”

“Yeah,” Chuuya responded, brushing the older man’s hand away and walking towards the exit, “and when we do, those assholes will wish they’d never even thought about taking him.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dazai’s PoV

Dazai opened his eyes slowly, his head spinning despite the fact that he was currently laying flat on his back. He lay still for a moment, waiting for the dizziness to fade, before moving his arms back to support himself and shoving his body up into a sitting position. The sudden movement sent a jolt of pain splitting through his torso and he groaned, bile flooding his mouth as he turned to the side, wretching and spitting. Dazai slowly shifted again, turning so that his back was to the wall and leaning against it, panting from the effort. 

Footsteps echoed on the hard ground, followed by the clinking and scraping of metal. A pair of dark shoes appeared in front of him, their tops covered by white pant cuffs. “Good morning Dazai-kun,” the man said. Dazai ignored him and instead closed his eyes at the familiar voice, letting out a deep sigh. No wonder the trap had been so perfect. 

The man advanced further into the cell and crouched beside Dazai, one knee almost touching the ground. Dazai turned his head, allowing his gaze to meet a pare of deep purple eyes. “Fyodor-kun,” he said dryly, “it seems you really are a rat if you find living underground to be a suitable arrangement.” Dazai allowed a slight smirk to take over his face - an empty, practiced mask that would have been frightening to anyone but the man next to him.

“You wound me, Dazai, implying that you believe I would deign to live here of all places. I thought you had more sense than to imply a king would inhabit his own dungeon or torture chamber.”

Dazai did not respond other than to rest his head against the cold cement wall, letting his eyes wander up to the ceiling. He was injured, with significant blood loss, and was now imprisoned by the only person he’d met whose wit could rival his own. There would be no escaping this until Fyodor decided to either release him or kill him — no, not kill him. Allow him to die. Because if he was to be kept by Fyodor then death would be slow, painful, and drawn out. When it came it would be on Fyodor’s terms and to receive it would be a mercy in itself. This was not the end he had hoped for. Though, he supposed, it would be the one he deserved. 

“Dazai?” A hand gripped his jaw and roughly yanked it, forcing him to look at the other man. “You should listen when I’m speaking.” The man’s eyes seemed to almost glow at the unstated threat.

“Sorry,” Dazai responded flatly, “you were boring me.” A dark smile took over Fyodor’s face as he withdrew, standing. 

“Is that so? Then I suppose we should begin.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the Agency’s offices

Chuuya drummed his fingers on the wooden desk next to him. He was sitting in one of the agency’s office chairs in front of a plain desk scattered with papers. Dazai’s desk. Dazai. Chuuya’s thoughts were spiraling. How had they sent him in alone. How had Dazai not called for backup, or at least sent some kind of message, when he’d first noticed something was off? How could Dazai have been caught in such a simple trap? Why had Chuuya not thought to send in at least one extra man just in case? How had Fyodor managed to prevent their scouts from detecting the trap in advance? Fyodor. Why had that boy betrayed the Mafia, when everyone employed by Mori knew the consequences of such an action? What had Dazai meant about finding traitors when the traitor was so obvious? Shit. He needed to clear his head. To stop thinking about the case—a case that even Ranpo had yet to crack. To stop thinking about _him_.

Damn it. Chuuya glanced across the office to where Ranpo sat. It was obvious that the situation was getting to him. There were documents everywhere—papers, photos, even security footage. The real sign though, was Ranpo’s frazzled behavior. He was snapping at everyone, muttering to himself, and rolling a marble between his fingers frantically, not a single snack wrapper in sight.

It had been 6 hours since the incident and they’d recovered most of the footage an only hour ago. Chuuya gulped as images of his partner—alone, bleeding, collapsing, fighting—again flooded his mind. He pushed them away. They’d find him soon. They would. They had to.


	7. Chapter 7

Dazai was hanging from the ceiling by his wrists, which were loosely chained together, looking bored. Fyodor stood a few feet from him, observing.

“Dazai, there are a few questions I’d like you to answer for me. Every time you fail to answer, or answer incorrectly, I will let our friend here break something of yours.” Dazai simply stared at Fyodor, not bothering to give the man beside him any form of acknowledgement. He already knew that it would be some grunt more than capable of delivering on Fyodor’s threat.

“Tell me, Dazai, how many of your office staff actually have abilities?” Dazai remained silent, gaze unwavering as the man approached him. The first hit came and his knee bent, shattering with a loud crack. Dazai grimaced before settling back into a neutral, bored expression.

Fyodor hummed softly. “How about this one: how many of the guild’s members survived the destruction of the Moby Dick?”

Dazai smirked, “None.”

“Wrong.” Fyodor’s voice echoed through the cell and Dazai shifted slightly to eye the other man warily. The man smiled as he examined Dazai, before choosing his next target. Dazai closed his eyes as the man swung. There was a pop first—his shoulder must have dislocated—then a crack and a sharp, burning pain as the sharp edge of broken bone tore through the muscle and cartilage of his shoulder. The tension his body’s weight was putting on his shoulders magnified the pain of the injury, and Dazai’s head spun.

Fyodor waited for Dazai’s eyes to open, now clouded by pain. “Still bored, Dazai?” he asked, before moving to another question. “Who is Mori’s lead executive?” 

Dazai made no effort to answer. It had become obvious to him that Fyodor already knew the answers to his own questions. “Come now Dazai-kun, I know the executives are not all truly equal. Who is Mori’s favorite?” Silence. Fyodor sighed, then signaled the man again. 

This time he stood directly in front of Dazai, practically grinning. Dazai barely had time to prepare before the blow came—a direct hit to the center of his body. His stitches tore and his vision went white as bone cracked and snapped, a high-pitched ringing filling his ears. Dazai didn’t realize he’d closed his eyes until his vision faded from blinding white to black, his ears still ringing as pain exploded through him. Slowly, the initial pain gave way to dull throbbing across his chest and sides. He began to register the sound of his own ragged breathing and slowly pulled his eyes open. He tasted blood. A cough rattled its way out of his lungs causing red droplets to splatter the floor beneath him. 

Dazai pulled his eyes open and was met by a pair of violet ones. Fyodor gripped his chin, raising Dazai’s head to examine him. “Now, that wasn’t so hard was it?” 

It took Dazai a moment to understand what Fyodor meant, his mind clouded by the pain. Then he realized, eyes widening. Chuuya. He must have said the name from some subconscious plea. Not to answer the question, but to call for help. Still, it had answered the question all the same. 

Fyodor smiled as he watched Dazai’s expression change from confusion to realization. “That’s right, Dazai. Chuuya. Mori’s fovorite little executive. Powerful. Obedient. Loyal. The Mafia’s perfect watchdog. And you just betrayed him. That’s the second time now, if I recall correctly.”

No, Dazai thought, not again, not Chuuya. I can’t have betrayed him. No. Please. It was an accident, I didn’t—

“But you did, Dazai,” Fyodor crooned as if he’d read the man’s mind. “You did betray him. You will always betray him. Because that’s what you do, what you are. A traitor. You were the Mafia’s demon, it’s prodigy. You betrayed them. Now he has to take your place. Though, I suppose they got the demon part right. After all, what kind of human could abandon someone they love to that?” 

Fyodor paused, withdrawing and turning to leave. “Sleep well, Dazai,” he called, before disappearing completely.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dazai
> 
> Please read the tags, this is very brutal and any triggers you can think of will probably apply at some point

Dazai woke suddenly, coughing and spluttering as he tried to inhale oxygen rather than the stream of water currently hitting his face. After what seamed an eternity the stream of water slowed, then stopped completely, leaving Dazai choking and wrenching on the ground. He was no longer suspended from the ceiling, but rather laying on his side in a dark cell. A tall figure stood over him, holding the still-dripping hose.

“Good morning, Dazai-kun,” Fyodor said, tossing the hose aside. “I hope you slept well. I think you’ll find today’s activities rather exciting.”

Dazai glared up at the other man, trying to keep his expression as neutral and bored looking as possible despite the shaking of his limbs and ragged breaths.

“Come now,” Fyodor continued, crouching down to Dazai’s level, “surely you’re just a little curious about what I have planned? No?” Fyodor signed, standing, and signaled to someone outside the cell. “Well, I do hope you enjoy it anyway” he said, smirking and stepping from the cell.

A low growl sounded nearby and Dazai flinched. He repositioned himself in an attempt to sit, only to be greeted by the sight of a viscous looking dog being roughly guided into his cell. The cell door closed with a loud bang, accompanied by the sound of a lock being slid into position. The dog had already turned its attention to Dazai, Who now sat hunched against the wall, eyes wide with fear. 

From Dazai’s right came the sound of footsteps and he looked over to see Fyodor standing beside the bars. Fyodor smiled, then tossed a small handgun into the cell so that it landed evenly between Dazai and the dog. 

“It has a single bullet in it,” Fyodor said coolly, “Use it wisely.” With that, the man turned and walked away.

Dazai looked at the dog again and shivered. He’d hated dogs for as long as he could remember, and here was one that hated him just as much. He had no idea if Fyodor would allow the dog to kill him or not, but odds were that the man was counting on Dazai’s ironically strong will to survive in situations that were not of his own making. Cursing himself, Dazai examines his options.

There weren’t many to consider. The dog was ferral and clearly starving. There was no chance it would leave him alone indefinitely. His only choice then was if or how to die—by the dog, by the bullet, or maybe not at all. There was no way he’d allow Fyodor the victory of seeing him break so easily or so soon. That meant he had to survive. To do that, he needed the gun.

Shit. The broken bones from the previous day’s torture would seriously restrict his movement, both in getting the gun and in using it. There were no outcomes that Dazai could envision that didn’t involve him feeling the dog’s teeth at least once. Of course, that was what Fyodor wanted, after all. 

Taking a breath to steady himself, Dazai moved forward slowly. The dog growled more deeply, baring its teeth at him. He balanced for a moment on his good leg, avoiding his shattered knee, the lunged for the gun.

Dazai grasped the gun in his right hand, crying out at the pain that shot through his body from the impact with floor and gun. The dog, which has leapt into motion almost simultaneously, was now above him, jaws snapping wildly. Dazai held up the gun and squeezed the trigger. 

Click

The dog’s teeth found flesh, jaws locking into Dazai’s arm. Dazai gasped at the pain, hand dropping the gun as his mind raced. Of course. One bullet. Six chambers. Fyodor had never said which chamber the bullet was in. Obviously, it wasn’t the first. One down, five to go.

Only now— now he was down an arm, the searing pain so strong he could barely think, let alone aim and shoot a gun. Still, he had to try. With a shaking hand Dazai grasped at the gun. He lifted it, but his hand continued to shake and his eyes were watering, and the dog was pulling at his arm, and—

He closed his eyes, praying that there would be a bullet in the chamber; praying that he could kill the dog; praying he wouldn’t miss, or worse, hit himself.

Dazai pulled the trigger. Nothing.

Again. Nothing.

Tears welled in his eyes now, mind beginning to panic.

Again. Nothing.

Shit. No. Nononono.... 

His arm was shaking even more violently now and Dazai could barely keep the gun pointing up toward the dog. Please, he thought, desperate, please...

He pulled the trigger.

Bang!

Dazai jumped with the shock of the sound, his entire body tensing. The jaws around his arm went slack. Dazai breathes out in relief and let his body collapse to the floor in a trembling, bloody mess. Finally.... Finally....

Steps echoed behind him and the door was unlocked. Fyodor entered the cell, clapping slowly.

“A brilliant show, Dazai-kun. The raw pain and desperation were just marvelous. Oh, and how did you like the surprise I had for you? Russian rulette has always been a fascination of mine, and I thought it would only be fair to give the dog a fighting chance. Besides, it would have been over much too quickly if the bullet had been in the first chamber.” Fyodor rambled as he made his way around to Dazai’s side where the dog’s teeth were still loosely hooked into his arm.

Slowly, Dazai cracked open his eyes and turned his head toward the approaching steps. He watched as Fyodor crouch beside him and felt hands take hold of the dog’s jaws, forcing them apart and tearing teeth from muscle and skin. In their place we’re deep, jagged wounds that were quickly filling with blood. The only response Dazai could manage was a shaky exhale as his head began to spin again. Everything was too bright and his head felt like it was underwater. 

He heard Fyodor speaking distantly, felt rough hands take hold of him and begin to move him. Yet, somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to care. It all felt so removed, so detached from him. He vaguely remembered that Mori had warned him about this once—shock, he called it—how this was something that claimed more lives than injuries themselves. But he also remembered the alternative: pain, and more of whatever other torments Fyodor has thought up. 

No, he thought, this was much better. At least here the pain was dull. Distant. Here, he could pretend he was safe.


End file.
